


Turns Them to Hunters

by starfleetdicks



Series: Be Careful of the Curse [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Dark!Derek, Emotional Abuse, Gore, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mental Abuse, Mildly Dubious Consent, Off-screen Character Death, Pain, Physical Abuse, Torture, dark!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starfleetdicks/pseuds/starfleetdicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles knows this will be another slow heal, another days-long progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turns Them to Hunters

“Good morning, Derek.”

Stiles strokes the bondage mask fondly, leaning over his bat.

He watches the alpha closely as those delicate lids slide back to reveal burning red eyes. He wonders how fast Derek would heal if he gouged them out, what the process would look like, how slowly it would go with wolfs-bane gas pumping through his lungs. Stiles hopes it’s as slow and fascinating as when he broke Derek’s hipbone, when he got to hear every crack and grind as the shattered bone tried to shift, put all the pieces back together for days.

_Humpty-dumpty sat on a wall and Humpty-dumpty had a great fall._

He grins and pulls away, hefting his bat and giving it a strong swing. It sails, just over Derek’s head, and the werewolf flinches prettily.

“It’s new. Did you notice? Can you _feel_ it?” Stiles caresses the length of it, gripping it solidly at the base, ready to swing again.

“Can you smell it? It smells delicious, right?” He doesn’t wait for the answer, doesn’t care what Derek thinks. He knows the wolf hates it by the way he cringes and fights not to take a breath, to pass out and forget the smell. Maybe it reminds him of trapped screams, fire, and ash. Stiles hopes so.

It reminds him of Scott.

Stiles swings the bat sharply into the werewolf’s chest, smiling as it forces Derek to cough and inhale, and choke up blood. There’s some broken ribs in there and it makes Stiles want to cackle with delight. Bruises struggle to form on quickly healing skin as Stiles watches and he wonders what the inside looks like, wishes he could cut it open and just watch. Silver hooks to keep the skin back, to keep from healing until he’s seen enough.

Blood seeps through the leather hiding Derek’s face, soft dripping rubies. Stiles moves closer, between Derek’s legs, and presses the bat close to the muzzle of the mask, ignoring the drops it collects.

“Smell it. It’s beautiful, the way it stinks of rotting meat. Musky and putrid. We know those smells, don’t we?” He smiles again when Derek’s eyes fly up sharply from the bat and meet his own. Nodding to himself, Stiles slips from between Derek’s legs and walks the room, rolling his wrist to arc in the bat in tight circles.

It’s perfect in his grasp, feels so much more powerful than the silver bat, slathered in wolfs-bane, that he broke over Scott’s head, the one that helped him crush every bone in his former friend’s body. The one he stabbed through Scott’s heart after it had finally snapped in two, jagged and perfect. He shivers at the memory, licks his lips, relives the agonized growls and whimpers as his friend slowly died, burned from the inside out.

This bat is better, this one is Stiles. This is his power making the rowan wood hum, come to life under his callused fingertips, and sing as it slices through air and thwacks against body parts.

Derek lurches as his arm breaks, bone sticking out from tanned flesh, and the scream that breaks through makes Stiles hard. He doesn’t bother stifling his moan as he reaches down to skirt his hand over the exposed bone. He breathes hard, inhales deeply, wraps his hand around it, and yanks hard. The howls make his body scream with satisfaction and he lets it go, rubs his hand clean down the front of his once grey hoodie, fingering already months old rust strains.

“I can almost love you like this,” he smiles, tilting his head to the side, jabbing the top of his baseball bat into Derek’s groin. “Like when I was blind to the lies.”

The alpha drops his head, defeated, groans as the broken bone begins its slow trek back into place. Stiles watches it for silent moment, letting Derek recover, counting the minutes as the bone ticks closer to its source. Like clockwork, he finds it beautiful. And hideous. He grinds the bat into Derek, growls loudly at him.

“ _Almost._ I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU,” Stiles screams, jerks the bat back, slams it against the side of Derek’s face over and over. He doesn’t stop until that perfect jaw is dislocated, broken, hanging at all the wrong angles under that mask.

He wants to rip it off, to _see and revel._

He refuses, he steps back to fight the urge. He needs Derek to keep inhaling the wolfs-bane. He needs this to be slow and torturous, for months and years. He’ll keep the wolf chained up here, starved and neglected. He’ll pet him and break him until he is all Derek remembers or knows.

Stiles will use him for his own pleasure, just like Derek did. An echo of the life Derek made him live before he realized the truth.

“I’ll never leave you,” he mocks, leaning close to that shattered visage. He whispers it by Derek’s ear before following the false elongated leather one with his lips, taking it in his teeth and tugging. Derek whimpers under him as the straps pull and push at his ruined face. Stiles knows this will be another slow heal, another days-long progress.

Achingly sweet.

He reaches into his pocket, fingering the smoothed down bone he will use to rub down the baseball bat. Stiles’ brings it to his own face, kisses it and closes his eyes, letting the feel of it in his hand overcome him for mere seconds.

“This has to be the most useful that Scott has ever been to me. The most giving. It’s thanks to him we get to keep nice things like my new bat, Derek. When your jaw heals, you should thank him,” Stiles mumbles, grinding the bone piece over his bat, along the grain, erasing the scratches and dents until it’s like new. Ready for more.

He ignores the glare in those red eyes as he shifts the bone into his dominant hand, thumbing the sharpened tip.

“Something small to remember him by,” Stiles laughs, leaning his bat against the wall. “What are you going to let me have from you, Derek? To remember you by when I’ve killed you too?” He kisses the buckle just between Derek’s eyebrows, traces the shape of his eyes through the leather tenderly, smiling. Derek tries to pull away as Stiles settles the tip of the bone just beside one tear duct. He stills quickly when Stiles presses hard, drawing blood and salt water.

“I’ve always liked your eyes, all their colors. What color do they turn when you pluck them out and put them in a jar, Derek?”


End file.
